


Third Time's a Charm

by crishcrash



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Angst, Anxiety Attacks, Childhood Trauma, Dave Strider Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Panic Attacks, Past Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Symbolism, its super implied and symbolistic, no graphics at all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:54:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24703378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crishcrash/pseuds/crishcrash
Summary: When Dave is left alone in his room, he becomes incredibly aware of the monster staring him down. "I was only a kid," Dave thinks, but the demon relents.
Kudos: 12





	Third Time's a Charm

**Author's Note:**

> hello pals. so ive been feeling very very bad so i decided to Cope Fic tm. 
> 
> tw for implied abuse it can be taken in any way but in this instance its implied sexual abuse. take care of yourself, i love you <3
> 
> twitter: ghostytrckstr

Shooting up from a dream, Dave rubs his eyes and groans. _Why the fuck. What time is it?_ He swivels his head around for his phone, hands scrambling for any sign of purchase. Finally, his hand felt a hard lump under the covers. Unearthing it from its cavern, he flashes the time from his screen.

4:13 AM, the white text screams.

“Ughhh,” Dave’s whine fades out as he crashes back onto the pillow and throws the plush plaid comforter back over his head. “Fuck you,” he calls out into the room in his moment of sleep-deprived anguish, specifically pointed towards his iPhone. Harsh words.

_Whatever, just try to go back to bed. You have school tomorrow and Bro will whoop major ass if you’re late again._

And so, he begins his second attempt that night at blissful sleep. _100 Mississippi, 99 Mississippi…_ he slowly counts back in his head. He’ll begin to doze, but then some street ruckus or his godforsaken brother will make some sort of noise to get him right back to square one. Or, one hundred.

_100 Mississippi, 99 Mississippi…_

A dumbass crow mistakes his skyscraper-high apartment complex for the night’s sky, and a loud CRASH can be heard throughout his room.

“UGHHH!” Dave cries out and slams his head into his pillow. After a moment of having his temper tantrum, he pulls it back out.

“Fine. I’ll just stare at the darkness and bore myself to sleep. If this wack ass universe will let me, goddamnit.”

At first, that’s exactly what he sees. Darkness. Nothing. Merely blank space and nothing more. But as his eyes adjust, he begins to see more and more of his bedroom. 

The small room has been kept the same and only added to since his childhood. He tends to hoard artifacts of times he was with his friends, since his Bro doesn’t really allow him to leave and hang with people much. He sees stacks of Polaroids, some of which waiting for their turn in the black room of his closet to be developed. He sees some already hanging, beautifully artistic portraits of his closest friends from middle school to now. An old carnival wristband, a $2 bill, countless empty bottles he knows Bro doesn’t care about enough for him to hide, and years of other memories are piled in his room. What can he say? He’s a little sentimental.

However, there is one memory leering above him. A few, actually.

Across from his bed is a bag of mixed emotions. In reality, the bag only holds a ukulele, but what that represents is so much more. 

It isn’t what’s in the bag, but who gave him the bag and its contents, that makes him avoid looking at it or getting rid of it at all costs. _If you don’t look at it, it can’t hurt._

_If you don’t acknowledge it, it can’t hurt._

And yet, there it is, staring him in the face. He never dares to remove it from its original spot it was placed in. Doing that requires accepting it exists, the person who gave it to him exists, and what happened to him was real.

The uke stares him down like a monster.

_What happened to me was real._

After one more final shaky breath, Dave can feel his throat closing up and tears threatening to spill.

_She hurt me._

_She hurt me and I let her hurt me. She touched me and I still feel those fingertips across my skin. I didn’t want anything. I didn’t want to do anything. Why did it happen? I feel dirty._

_I feel dirty. A soiled, small boy. My wasted skin, she took everything from me._

_I was only a kid._

Now sitting up, Dave is curling in on himself clutching his pillow to his chest as tight as humanly possible. His breathing goes from restricted to hypervigilant, and at that moment, squeezing his eyes tight in order to no longer look at the item, a tear falls. From there, they all follow suit to run after the first. Dave’s nose becomes a fountain alongside his eyes and his knuckles are pale white.

_And after all this time, I couldn’t even fucking get rid of that goddamn ukulele. I haven’t seen her in years, haven’t uttered her name in years. And she still has control over me. Still has one arm wrapped around my waist, and the other around my neck._

Dave’s body succumbs to the hyperventilation spouting from his lungs, and he passes out where he sits. Crumbled up, surrounded by his memories.

Dave is asleep. Third time’s a charm.


End file.
